The Doctor, The Desert, and Death
by M. Corrigible
Summary: John Hamish Watson and Death have a history. Doctors fight death. Soldiers protect some from death, sentence others to death. John has always had close ties with Death, and now he remembers why. This is a story where Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes do what they normally do - but John has a big secret about a magical past, and Sherlock's bound to find out...
1. The Doctor, The Desert, and Death

John Hamish Watson had been shot. He was bleeding out into hot sand, tamped down by the to-and-fro transit of boots, tires, and convoys. He was bleeding out in a foreign land, under the desert sun. He pushed weakly against the ground beneath him, struggling to rise. He needs to finish tending the wounded solider he had been trying to save. The one who had been hit by the roadside bomb. The one he had been applying a tourniquet to when his world had shifted, narrowing to a point of searing pain, then exploding outwards as a sniper's bullet ripped through his shoulder.

John Hamish Watson was under no delusions about his chances of survival, or the chance of recovery for his fallen comrade. The one he had been tending to. The one now pinned beneath John's useless weight. His life did not flash before his eyes as he struggled to rise and finish his task. The life of the prone man beneath him did.

John Hamish Watson cursed the shoddy marksmanship of the enemy sniper. Instead of a clean death, he would bleed out over the next several minutes. Too weak to help someone with better chances of survival, too weak to make this death count. Just as he teetered on the precipice of self-indulgent hopelessness, he felt a spark of old determination grind into place deep within himself. He refused to fail, refused to give up when he could save another's life. He refused to succumb to the darkness without a fight this time.

With gritted teeth and sweaty brow, John Hamish Watson rolled off of the soldier beneath him. He hobbled-crawled-pulled himself alongside of the young man's injured side. He reassessed the condition of the bloody limb that had been caught in the blast. He knew that the tourniquet that he had applied would prevent this young man, this _too_ young man, from bleeding out with him in the sun and the sand. He knew it would also probably claim the remains of the mangled limb beneath it. He knew this young man – this boy, really – would hate him for years, for crippling him. He knew this young man could grow past the resentment and mature into a good man who would change the lives of others.

John Hamish Watson _knew_ it. He didn't suspect it; he wasn't having an out-of-body experience. He wasn't experiencing the mental distance of shock. Maybe a little, he was losing copious amounts of blood at this point, but he was used to the sensation of being near death. He was old friends with Death, had credentials. As Captain John Hamish Watson, he had met Death on the battle field. As Doctor John Hamish Watson he met Death in the field surgery tent and as a surgeon in the hospital. He and Death had a _history_.

Death surrounded John Hamish Watson. Death took friends, relatives, strangers, and acquaintances. Death would touch every individual in his life, every one he ever had met and would meet, and he knew it. And though Death reached out to embrace him, John Hamish Watson knew he would not, _could not_, die today. Because, at times like this, John Hamish Watson recalled another name, buried deep in his past, and another title, like _Captain_ and _Doctor_ that tied him to Death.

John Hamish Watson had been shot. And while he should have died, bleeding out into hot sand under a foreign sun, he knew he would survive. Because John Hamish Watson was Harry James Potter. And Harry James Potter was incapable of dying. He was the Master of Death.


	2. The Doctor Didn't Die that Day

Quick Note: I've decided to continue this little story. I'm not sure where it's going to go, but I have a few ideas. Bear with me! Updates are likely to be short and sporadic (sorry!). If you have any ideas, feel free to share. I think prompts might help, but don't be offended if they don't fit with where I want the story to go. No guarantees they'll be incorporated!

Um, and just because I didn't say it before (thought it seems obvious) - I have no rights to anything Harry Potter or Sherlock. I'm not making money. I'm just having some fun here.

Thanks to everyone who read/favorited/reviewed/followed/etc.! I sincerely appreciate it. :)

Finally - sorry for the short length of this. It's a little filler chapter that I felt was necessary before continuing.

John Watson did not die that day in the desert. He and the soldier he was tending to when he was wounded were both extracted shortly after he collapsed, and both survived, though John was right: the young soldier lost his leg because of the tourniquet.

Arguably, the man may have lost the limb anyway. The roadside bomb had shredded the meat and muscle of his leg to the bone. John wasn't sure anyone could recover a limb from damage like that, including himself.

The doctors and nurses told John he was lucky. The sniper's shot managed to miss his heart by mere millimeters, and did only minimal damage to his lung. The muscles of his shoulder were another story.

John didn't feel lucky. He now suffered nerve damage in his left hand, his dominant hand, bringing his days as a surgeon and a soldier to a close.

John was invalided home, back Britain, to recuperate and settle back into civilian life.

Deep inside of John Watson, Harry Potter sighed. Becoming John Watson, medical school, enlisting, it was all done to get _away_ from settling into civilian life. Unfortunately, while he seemed to have mastered Death, Life could still muck about with him at its whim. John pulled a tight smile – more of a grimace, really – and nodded to himself.

"Right." He huffed and nodded to himself. "All right," he said with more conviction and determination in his eye, and with a much put-upon exhalation, he prepared himself for submersion in civilian life once more.


	3. Memories and Meetings

_Hello again - I feel like I should apologize for the pell-mell nature of these updates. This is new and recreational for me, and there's a lot going on just at the moment. I'll actually be heading across the pond on Friday for a couple of weeks, so chances of another update before July are pretty slim (fair warning). This chapter is at least longer than the last one, which is (hopefully) nice. Finally, there are a couple of notes at the bottom for anyone who's interested. Thank you for your continued interest and support!_

_And a quick FYI - __**I don't own Harry Potter or Sherlock.**__ And I definitely am getting no monetary compensation from this. In fact, it's probably costing me seeing as it's past midnight and I have work tomorrow morning. Bleh!_

* * *

It was neither sunny nor rainy, but cloudy and grey-skied as John sat on a bench in Postman's park, just across from St. Bart's, ruminating about his situation.

He was tired. His nightmares had returned after he had been shot. Nightmares about fallen comrades, about good men he didn't make it to on time, soldiers and friends who died bleeding out in his care – even the ones he had managed to save in the waking world.

He had other nightmares, too. Nightmares reminding him of a forgotten life and another time previously only realized only in the fugue state of dreams, now more substantial after his brush with Death in the desert. Memories full of small spaces; high, thin, cruel laughter; flashing green light; lightning-bolt scars; pain; and loss haunted him.

It had been disconcerting, waking up in the army hospital with two sets of memories. It made him weary, and left him feeling so much older than before. And wasn't that odd? That the added memories of a much younger man could make him feel so much more worn than he did already.

His body felt as broken as his mind. His shoulder ached. His hand trembled. His leg throbbed with pain, and he limped with every step. Worst of all, the limp and pain in his leg were psychosomatic. He'd healed, and while his body might know, his brain didn't.

The thought that he was somehow keeping himself from recovery made everything that much worse. He was John Watson, the surgeon with steady hands, the doctor who knew better, the soldier with a sharp shot and serious left hook, the field surgeon who healed the wounded, and the captain who made sure his troops were kept in order, in supply, and performed their duties admirably.

He had been Harry Potter, chosen one, boy-who-lived, man-who-triumphed, person-with-too-many-hyphenated-titles. He had faced down Voldemort and survived. He had literally looked Death in the eye and had walked away, back to the world of the living. Now he was unable to even command his own body. Or worse, his mind was the cause of the weakness in his body!

He scrubbed his hand across his face, a habit he'd picked up after adopting his new life as John Watson and shedding his former appearance of Harry Potter. With no scar to pull his fringe over, he'd developed new ways to fidget.

There was more to his bad mood than his recent medical discharge and various health issues (both mental and physical). He'd been to see his sister, _Harry_. Short for Harriet. _Really._

He never liked meeting with his _sister._ They never got along growing up, they loved each other in the way all siblings must, and had done their best to support each other in their various times of need. But now that he knew who she really was, and who _he _really was - well, now she was unbearable. He couldn't believe she'd made them relatives. _Siblings!_

He had grown up with an alcoholic mother and a father who worked hard to keep the household together despite the obvious difficulties. He and _Harry_ – and oh, she really was asking for it using that name! It really rankled now that he knew where it came from – had been left in their mother's care while their father worked longer and longer hours to keep the family afloat, and keep away from home.

Their mother was rarely abusive, but was very neglectful. _Harry_ wasn't very good at taking care of herself (or him), regardless of the fact that she was the older sibling. It fell to John to make sure they had lunch to eat, that their clothes were cleaned, and all of the other mundane little tasks adults are supposed to take care of.

When _Harry _was sixteen and John was thirteen, their mother died, killed by a drunk driver. Somehow the irony never seemed very funny to the surviving Watsons.

_Harry _picked up the bottle where their mother left off. It wasn't obvious at first, but over time John began to notice the signs. She had become more moody and irritable, very touchy and seemed depressed. Her eyes weren't quite right – too unfocussed, too sad, too accusing.

Their father worked even longer hours after their mother died. And avoided the house even more once _Harry_ started drinking. Then he just didn't come home at all. It was a week before his body was found and John and _Harry _learned he had killed himself. John was sixteen. _Harry _was named his legal guardian. He tried not to be bitter about it all.

Now that he could remember everything from before, John didn't think it was very fair that _Harry_ had offered him an opportunity to start over – to experience a new life free from the burdens of his last one – just to put him in another shit childhood and be orphaned all over again. And he was sure she'd known what would happen. She was just that much of a sadist, in his opinion. He thought he knew her well enough to draw that conclusion.

John ran his fingers over the phone he held loosely in his palm. It was a gift from her when they'd met yesterday. He wasn't sure he wanted to keep it. He wasn't sure he ever want to speak with her again. It wasn't even a proper gift – it was a reclaimed and recycled gift, something her ex, Clara, refused to take with her when she left.

He found the inscription on the back particularly irritating. It reminded him of failures he hadn't even contributed to. Or maybe he had. Was it his fault _Harry _and Clara split up? He wasn't sure – would _Harry _have even in a position to woo Clara in the first place if he hadn't taken her up on her offer?

He really hoped his memories – the old set of memories – would fade again soon. He didn't think he could handle thinking in so many layers for very long. If they didn't, he'd need to work on his occlumency skills, just to keep everything organized. He scrubbed his hand over his face again and shifted forward in his seat, propping his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely in the middle, eyes on the middle distance as his thoughts churned round and round again.

The sound of a slightly shuffling step caught his attention, and John glanced towards the walking path by the bench. His old friend, Mike Stamford, waved to him.

John had bumped into Mike at St. Bart's a few days earlier after an appointment with his physio. They had caught up over a pint or two after Mike's shift that evening. John confided his frustration at his persistent limp, which had been diagnosed as psychosomatic, and his trouble finding a suitable position to ease his transition back into every-day life in London.

"You're a fine surgeon," Stamford told him. "Any hospital would be glad to have you on staff."

John grimaced in response and sipped at his pint. "Maybe before, but not with a tremor like this," he held up his left hand, his dominant hand, to show Stamford how his damaged nerves caused fine spasms to chase up and down his fingers.

"Damned sniper," Mike cursed as he examined the proffered hand. "Is there anything I can help with while you're sorting yourself out?" he offered as much as asked, honestly concerned for John's well-being. He remembered well how proud John was of his steady hands, how integral they were to a surgeon's livelihood.

John shrugged in response. "You don't happen to know anyone looking for a flat-share, do you?"

He couldn't afford to live on his own any longer, not on what his pension from the military paid – certainly not in London. Luckily, Stamford did know someone who was looking for a flatmate.

"Actually, I think I do," Mike smiled at John, pleased to be of some assistance.

He agreed to meet John at the Postman's Park the following day and introduce him to an acquaintance – Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_This chapter kind of got away with me. I thought I had a good back story (well, a serviceable back story) for how Harry became John (Harry is John, by the way, in case that wasn't clear), but then I started writing about Harr(y)iet and John's relationship and things changed. I think it will be a change for the better. _

_The last bit with Stamford was kind of slapped on there...I don't think it flows very well, but I wanted to get things moving a little better. It's been a long time since I did ANY creative writing at all. It's hard to get back into the swing! I fear this was much better as a one shot, if you agree, feel free to mentally edit out all of the rest of this._

_Also, HOORAY! We seem to be finally getting close to meeting Sherlock!_

_Thanks again for reading my oddity - I'd love to hear your thoughts!_

_-M_


	4. In the Morgue

Molly Hooper was a wealth of resources. She provided Sherlock with specimens for his experiments, fresh corpses to examine, and laboratory equipment too delicate to procure for use in his flat. She was also frustratingly infatuated with him.

Were he prone to such maudlin sentiment, Sherlock might be flattered or even tempted by her advances. Sadly, – for Molly – he did not feel such sentiment; but he was willing to take advantage of it. When she invited him to coffee, he never rejected her outright, instead he exploited her attraction by placing an order with the implied (or occasionally explicitly stated) command to go and fetch it for him. He exploited her crush for his gain.

He knew Molly thought of him in familiar terms – bordering on friendship. Vasodilation of the facial veins and capillaries still occurred when he entered a room or addressed her directly, particularly if the address could be interpreted as positive, betrayed her deep-seated and continuing attraction to him, but there were indications that she was acclimating to his presence. Small quips in response to snarky comments indicated a level of comfort (still low, evidenced by the apologies which promptly followed the quips) and even camaraderie.

Sherlock recognized the signs, but did not understand what to do with them. He had studied enough human relationships externally to identify the early warning signs of friendship. There was a problem, though. Sherlock didn't have friends. He didn't like people. And he had little to no reference points for human interactions experienced from within the interaction. Consequently, Molly Hooper annoyed him. He didn't know what to do with her continuing overtures of friendship (and more), but he did know how to exploit her emotional investment. She was a convenient resource; a tool to be utilized then put away until needed again – and he was willing to take advantage accordingly.

Sherlock had rarely found it necessary to invest any of his considerable cognitive abilities to the inconvenience of human sentiment. He was a highly functioning sociopath, or enough of one to convince the appropriate clinicians of said pathology, and as such was not likely to waste time on things like the Molly problem. He found it vexing that he'd spent so much time maintaining a balance between deflecting and encouraging her advances to ensure future access to her resources as it was.

Of more immediate concern was the more pressing problem of his flat. He had lived in a modest flat on Montague Street for several years, alienating and intimidating neighbors until they left him alone. The system had worked well for him until the landlord caught on and evicted him three months ago. He had then solved a case for one Mrs. Hudson, owner of 221 Baker Street, and resident of the 221 A apartment.

At first glance, he was afraid the case would be terribly boring, but only a few minutes into their interactions Sherlock found Mrs. Hudson to be very not dull. Even surprising. She had reason to believe her husband was involved in a series of murders in the United States. He feared she was going to ask him to help prove her obviously guilty husband's innocence (Dull, and predictable. Sherlock always abhorred how much sentiment clouded reason). However, Mrs. Hudson was not interested in turning a blind eye to her husband's crime. Indeed, she was interested in justice for the victims, and boldly told Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes, I want you to find the evidence the Americans need to put my husband away once and for all."

During the case, Mrs. Hudson had successfully managed a task no one else had yet achieved. She had insinuated herself into Sherlock's _regard_. She was dull, and stupid, as most people were. However, she was equal parts unassuming older woman (complete with fresh baked goods and fretting over one's proper weight) and steel-nerved battle horse, willing to stand up for her vision of justice regardless the cost. He wouldn't call her a _friend_, per se, but she had elicited an amount of fondness in him, and he never found her _boring_.

After solving her case -resulting in the conviction of her husband of serial murders in the state of Florida and his subsequent incarceration, pending his scheduled execution – Sherlock accepted her invitation to room in her open flat space, 221 B Baker Street at just the time when his tenancy at Montague Street had come to an end.

The flat was in a more central part of London than his last one, more convenient to New Scotland Yard, and she was more tolerant of his experiments and temperament than his last landlord. With this _luck_, though Sherlock was loath to ascribe any circumstances to that word, one would think his living arrangements would no longer be an issue.

Unfortunately, that would be an erroneous conclusion made before gathering all of the pertinent details. There was still a problem. The flat itself was too big for only one tenant – two bedrooms, a bath, living area and kitchen - and Mrs. Hudson was losing money renting it to only him each month. She hadn't asked him for more rent yet, but had hinted that a roommate would be a good addition. For the first time in his life, he experienced a desire to take care of the problem for her – to find a solution not because of the inherent joy of putting the pieces of a puzzle together, but to keep her happy – to please her.

On his last trip to the St. Bart's morgue to utilize the resources available to him through Molly Hooper, Sherlock had also run into Mike Stamford, one of the teaching physicians at the hospital, with whom he had a somewhat courteous relationship.

Stamford fell into the small number of tolerable individuals he had met. He was a rare, straightforward man. Sherlock always was intrigued by the guileless. Stamford legitimately cared about other people and wanted them to be at their best. He had no underlying motives. Yes, he derived personal satisfaction when he successfully treated someone, but Sherlock wouldn't consider that a count against Stamford. It merely meant he was suited for the occupation he had selected for himself: first as a doctor of medicine, then as an instructor for medical students. He believed in the ability of the human body to heal; the power of the human spirit to learn and improve itself; and the raw talent hidden in others, just waiting to be developed into something worthwhile. Furthermore, Stamford was refreshingly competent. He was something functioning and relatively clean in a world of broken detritus.

Thus, when Stamford engaged Sherlock, it actually elicited a verbal response.

"And how is the new flat, Sherlock?" Stamford inquired, shifting his conversation away from Molly (prattling and inconvenient background noise to Sherlock's work in the morgue lab).

Sherlock appreciated the narrowed scope of the question. He despised inanities such as "How are you?" – as if anyone couldn't tell by looking at someone, was interested in the answer, or would be prepared to deal with an honest response. Stamford knew he had recently relocated to a new flat. The question demonstrated not only an awareness of current events pertinent to Sherlock's current state, but also an area of concern in his life. Sherlock internally frowned at that. Had Stamford read his distress regarding the apartment from his mannerisms? The thought was quickly dismissed. Stamford was a friendly sort of person. He was simply attempting to engage Sherlock in such a way as to encourage an honest response and prevent verbal evisceration for being stupid and dull.

"The accommodations are more than sufficient and Mrs. Hudson is an able landlady. However, I find myself in the awkward position of needing a flatmate. The unit is too large for a single, and while Mrs. Hudson would not evict me out of misguided loyalty for solving her case, she has indicated her preference for me to find someone to share the space with." Sherlock responded in his standard blunt and rapid fashion.

"A flat-share? You know, I think I might know someone who may be interested," Stamford mused.

"I am a difficult man to meet, let alone live with, Stamford. Who would willingly want to share a flat with me?"

"You might be surprised," Stamford responded with a slight smile, confident lift of the chin, and released tension in the shoulders that told Sherlock he thought he had a solution for Sherlock's problem. "Look, Sherlock, I might know a bloke who's interested – can you meet me back here tomorrow around this time to introduce you?"

Sherlock quirked a single eyebrow. "I'm sure Miss Hooper will have the results of my tests by tomorrow afternoon. It should be a convenient enough meeting time."

Stamford's smile was bordering on contagious at the response. "Good, good. See you then. Cheers, Molly!" He called as he turned for the door.


	5. A Glimpse of Holmes

John woke from another restless night of uneasy sleep. He had been plagued by nightmares – not of the war, or at least not of the war in Afghanistan. He dreamed of a war that seemed fantastic, fought by wizards in some archetypal battle of good against evil. He had featured prominently as a confused and undertrained youth, thrust into a role of responsibility and hardship.

As fantastical as it all seemed, John knew they were real memories, and not just nightmares. That, or he needed to reconsider opening up about all of his nightmares with his psychiatrist. Maybe he had finally snapped. Was it possible to have two sets of memories? To have lived two lives? It sure sounded barmy to him, but deep down he knew it was true.

John scrubbed a hand against his face and absently rubbed his fingertips across his forehead, seeking out a scar that was no longer there. He smiled wryly. One of his last memories as Harry included an intense desire to leave the wizarding world at any cost. He didn't remember everything about that life, but he remembered enough.

With that awareness came a realization; he knew he'd have to address the world he'd tried so hard to leave behind. But he really had no idea where to begin. He was John now. He liked being John. John helped people; he served his country in the military and helped heal patients as a surgeon. His now somewhat-joined consciousness smirked at the idea that even given the opportunity to be someone new, he still suffered from what Hermione called his "saving people thing." He didn't know whether to be proud of himself or to roll his as.

And wasn't that an odd concept to wrap his head around – himself. What was his true self? Wasn't John _John?_ Or was _Harry_ John…or was_ John_ Harry…or…what was he now? He still felt like John. He'd stick with John, unless he needed to be Harry…it really hurt to think about too much.

John glanced at his alarm clock and chased those thoughts from his mind. It was easier to feel like himself (like John) when he had something to do. Lately, that meant he was feeling adrift, with only his physical therapy appointments, meetings with his therapist, and the occasional visit from _Harry_. His sister Harry. Not old him Harry. And bloody hell that was confusing. And he was still irritated that she had the gall to make herself his sister.

But that was not his present concern. No. Right now he needed to get himself packed up on the off chance that the meeting with Stamford's friend that needed a flat mate was desperate enough to take in an ex-army doctor with a limp and screaming nightmares. John scrubbed his hand across his forehead – where the cursed scar occupied space when he was Harry – and inhaled deeply. Fortune favors those who take action. Or something like that.

John had always been more of a man of action, at any rate. It helped him focus. He believed in living in the moment. Maybe it was his crap childhood, or his time as a doctor, or his stint in the RAMC. Maybe it was an inborn trait that made him hate sitting by, idly. Regardless, it was part of his nature now, and one of the reasons he was feeling so lost after being invalided home – bizarre past lives aside.

Nothing ever happened to John, not unless he made it happen. Perhaps that was why he always preferred taking action. If nothing would happen to him, he would find something to do.

* * *

Two hours and twenty minutes later, John proudly assessed his progress. His meager belongings were packed into half a dozen storage boxes and one army duffel bag. He was showered, shaved, and dressed in what he considered to be comfortable but presentable clothes. He wanted to make a good impression, but didn't want to present a false front. Or was he always presenting a false front? Now that he remembered who he used to be, he wasn't so sure. John had always been a very honest man – prided himself on the fact – and the thought truly bothered him.

Forcing himself to focus, he rolled his shoulders back, squaring himself to face the challenge of acquiring a flat mate. He shrugged into his jacket and grabbed his cane from its nearby resting spot. Tucking his wallet and phone in his pockets, he limped to the door and locked it behind him as he debated the merits of sparing his leg in the tube and getting a taxi instead. Mentally calculating the taxi fare, he sighed and headed for the nearest Underground station.

* * *

John arrived at St. Bart's, met Stamford in his office, then followed him downstairs and through the corridors to the pathology lab attached to the morgue. An odd place to meet a bloke, but he could honestly say he'd made friends in stranger places. Stamford beat him to the lab, of course. John was much slower with his cane.

Meeting Sherlock Holmes was an experience, to say the least. He was certainly not a boring man. He was possibly the most interesting person John had ever met – maybe not the most interesting man he'd met as Harry, but probably in the top ten.

They were never actually introduced. Stamford started to introduce them, but Sherlock beat him to it. Somehow, he knew all about John – or at least all about John's present life – without having to be told.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock had asked. They were his first real words to John. No 'hello' or 'nice to meet you, I hear you're looking for a place to stay.' No, sir. He asked to borrow Stamford's phone, but Stamford didn't have it with him, so John volunteered his own.

Sherlock took it from him and, while typing merrily away, asked him almost as an afterthought, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

After John answered, "Afghanistan," fairly bewildered, Sherlock launched into a list of his own personal habits: plays the violin, silent for days on end. He explained that it was important for roommates to know these things about each other.

John still hadn't so much as gotten Sherlock's name. Stamford simply sat at the lab table and looked amused. When John complained that they didn't know each other, Sherlock proceeded to demonstrate exactly what he did know. And he was surprisingly accurate. If not for his one mistake, John would've thought his old world – the world he'd occupied as Harry – had just collided with his own, and he had simply run into an accomplished legilimens.

He knew John had been in the army, had been a doctor, had a support system he was reluctant to go (though he got the relationship and the reasons wrong), that he was seeing a psychiatrist, and that his limp was psychosomatic. And John knew he'd done it all without magic. It was astounding.

As he slipped out the door, Sherlock offered John his name and the address of the flat he wanted to share with John. 221 B Baker Street.

Stamford chuckled at John's flabbergasted expression and wished him "Good luck."

For the first time in his life, John felt like something might be beginning to happen to him. He'd taken the step out of the door to meet Stamford's friend, sure, but his first impression of Sherlock Holmes was something akin to a force of nature. Against his better judgment, he planned to meet him as directed at 221B Baker Street, the following day, at seven o'clock.

_AN: Another short one..it seemed like a good enough place to break. Plus, now there's an update that didn't take a month to get up! I'll continue to post as able. Thank you for your continued interest - M._


	6. Not Boring

_AN: Hi everyone - Just a quick little chapter that seemed like it wanted to be put in here. It wasn't one I had planned on, but as I was working on what I thought was going to be chapter 6, this happened. What do you think? Also, I think chapters will get longer as we get more into plot, but I'm not going to force it. I want the chapter breaks to be appropriate for the contents. Like, I really debated posting this as is, or waiting until I had what will now be ch.7 complete to post with it. I haven't done any creative writing for ages, which probably shows...advice is welcome if you have any tips for planning/writing/flow/etc._

_I've been getting some questions about Harriet - all in good time! I promise it will be addressed, but you can't have the answer that quickly. It shouldn't be too much longer for the reveal. Maybe a chapter or two. But you can wait, right? I'm a firm believer in the process being the fun part (if you have any guesses, I'm all ears, and if you get it right, I might tell you)._

_Really, seriously, sincerely, thanks for reading. I hope you like it. If you have questions (which I don't guarantee to answer if it's something I want to address in a chapter later), comments, concerns, corrections, suggestions, etc., I'm all ears._

_Best Regards,_

_M._

Sherlock Holmes was very rarely surprised by humanity.

He was often repulsed and disappointed – to the point that he had accepted most people simply weren't worth the bother of acknowledging – but rarely was he surprised.

It was what made a case so interesting. When some person snapped, or became so perverse, or corrupt, or lonely, or enraged, or desperate, or (and this thought, unlike the others, actually concerned him - minimally) bored that they acted out of the appropriate spectrum of acceptable human behavior, he was intrigued. Crime was not unexpected, but sometimes it wasn't boring. There were some times it was outright fascinating, exhilarating, engaging…there were times it managed to break the monotony of his daily observations about boring people doing boring things and gave his overactive mind something to focus on.

So there were times that Sherlock was surprised by individuals within the broader species of homo sapiens. But rarely was he pleasantly surprised. Mrs. Hudson had managed it, as had Mike Stamford in his own way. Molly hadn't yet, but still might.

_John, _though, _John_ was the only person in his adult life who had managed it in their very first meeting.

At first glance: dull. Army doctor, injured, invalided home. Shot through the shoulder (still recovering). Psychosomatic limp, his simplistic mind likely having confused the pain of the bullet with an old injury, lesser injury, or perceived injury in the leg due to an inability to process the actual trauma and its reprecussions. Weak-minded. Easily manipulated due to natural easy-going and generous nature. Simple-minded. Angered by situations he doesn't understand. Slow. Doesn't keep up with logical thought processes and needs added explanation and exposition of obvious facts.

Based on prior experience, Sherlock should have already scared John away. Empirically, people with his disposition didn't mesh well with Sherlock. However, he knew John would show up the following day at seven o'clock sharp to view 221B. Somehow, even with all of his irascible, genius charm, he hadn't managed to put the good doctor off.

Furthermore, he was actually _interesting! _Sherlock's interest was never caught by people. Which meant John Watson was not just interesting, but _very _interesting. Unique. There were added layers to the man. He wore a disguise – a trained killer dressed in wooly jumpers. A qualified surgeon, a healer, competing with barely restrained and finely honed skills of survival, defense, and attack. His musculature testified to years of standing on edge, _while pretending not to be_.

And for all of these layers, the man was _honest_, if such a word could be applied to any human. There was simply no guile in the man. His face; honest. His nature; direct – his immediate and visceral, _visible _responses to external stimuli (equally quick to anger, mirth, and repose). His eyes; expressive, emotive even, with the barest _hint_ of guardedness. He wasn't hiding anything, though. He was simple not yet willing to disclose all of his secrets. He held his privacy closely. Which was interesting to see in an individual so outwardly unconcerned with the way the world perceived him.

Or was that misdirection? Was he honestly unaware of the hidden depths he possessed – the psychosomatic limp testified to his own self-ignorance – or did he project an unconcerned outward appearance to throw potential enemies off of the very real threat he could pose in combat situations?

The puzzle of John Watson, the kind-hearted doctor and dangerous soldier, had occupied more of his thoughts than any other individual outside of a case or a feud (Mycroft) in years. He found himself even looking forward to John's visit to 221B -eager to know him better - eager to peel back his layers and learn his secrets.

He felt his pulse quicken and his nerve endings buzz with increased production of adrenaline. Sherlock Holmes had finally found a worthy challenge, one that couldn't be solved with quick observation. No, this mystery would take time to unravel – days, weeks, maybe even months or years. A dark pink tongue whetted pale pink lips as Sherlock shifted in his seat. This was an unprecedented delight, and Sherlock was - for once - truly excited.


	7. Family Ties

_Author's Note: So, this is a LOT longer than the other chapters...I think it's longer than all of the other chapters so far combined, actually. It kind of took on a mind of its own. Let me know what you think! Hopefully, this should answer a lot of questions about who Harriet is and how Harry became John. Not everything is completely out in the open yet, but we're getting there. Also, I don't believe in completely rehashing the episodes. We all know what happens (at least, I'm assuming we've all watched Sherlock, if not...stop reading this right now and go do it!), so fill in the blanks. I'll only write scenes that will be changing from cannon because of my crazy idea about John and Harry. More notes at the end. And I'm thinking about changing the name of the story (that's the last note at the end). Let me know what you think!_

John met Sherlock at 221 B Baker Street at 7:00 the next day, as planned. Sherlock was there already, waiting for him at the door wrapped in the greatcoat and scarf John already identified with the man after only one meeting. _A dramatic personality deserves a dramatic wardrobe, I suppose,_ John chuckled internally.

He still worried about the wisdom of moving in with Sherlock Holmes – still knew next to nothing about the man. He knew he had been observed and Sherlock had somehow known a great deal about him from merely _looking_ at him.

The brief but acute scrutiny left John with more questions about Sherlock than answers. How did he guess all of that? From his own personal observations, John could tell that Sherlock was intelligent (obvious), that he was difficult, he enjoyed nice things (just look at his wardrobe), came from money (posh accent), and was not used to being liked.

It was that last point that intrigued John. It seemed that Sherlock was almost trying to warn him away when they first met – to reject John by being unwelcoming and too formidable and peculiar for John to want to room with - before he could be rejected by John for some other reason, or even for the same reasons.

Well, John was not so easily shaken off. He'd grown up with Harry, for one thing, and then he'd joined the Army. And now that he could remember living in Gryffindor tower at the same time as the twins, or Percy, or while being suspected of being dangerous or mad…well, he was certain he'd had worse living conditions.

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, greeted them at the door and showed them the way to the upstairs apartment, promising to be up in a moment. Sherlock bounded up the stairs, with John ambling slowly behind – stairs always gave him trouble with his leg. At the door, Sherlock turned to open the door with a flourish, and looked at John with an impatient, almost disappointed expression, as though John's impairment offended him. Ignoring the moment, they entered the flat John and Sherlock skirted around one another awkwardly in the flat.

It was a very nice flat, and seemed homey in a cluttered kind of way. John actually could see himself being perfectly content living here. He and Sherlock danced around each other a bit at first – John called the space "very nice indeed" and then commented on moving out some of the clutter, which turned out to be Sherlock's status quo level of organization. He blustered about trying to clean a space, but really just shifting papers from one pile to another. John idly remembered a saying about the organized chaos of genius at work, piles everywhere, but the knowledge of where anything was at any time. Feeling bad about causing any discomfort to Sherlock, John decided to change the subject instead.

"That's a skull." He indicated the human remains perched on the mantel, using his cane as a pointer.

"Ah, yes!" Sherlock dropped the papers – distraction successful – and turned with fondness toward the bones. "An old friend of mine," with a slight smile, the first reminiscing smile John had seen on the man, and the most honest. "Well, I _say_ friend…" Sherlock turned to John with a wry grin.

If he had to pick the exact moment he began to suspect this flat share would change his life, John wouldn't have remembered the comment about the skull. But it was the first time that in the back of his mind he questioned the wisdom of rooming with Sherlock Holmes.

John was already captivated by the intriguing man with the genius intellect and sharp eyes. It was the part that sought adventure and stood up against injustice. The part that didn't seek out trouble, but refused to turn away from it. Hell, he'd already shot a man to save him - an act that had already been found out by the man he saved – which somehow cemented his interest further.

Another part of John really wanted nothing more than find a nice, quiet place to rest and recuperate from his injuries and heal his psyche and deal with the fallout of remembering his magical past. That part of John told him this was a bad idea, and that once he moved in, he would never be able to leave Sherlock Holmes again. That part of him realized that Sherlock would get to know John better than any other human ever had – even better than Ron and Hermione had known Harry Potter, and that there was a good chance that John's secrets, and his newly revealed secret past, wouldn't remain secret as he, or his past self, had hoped.

He really wasn't sure what he was getting into. In fact, whatever it was that had brought him to Sherlock's flat was probably a bad idea. But he'd always been brave, foolishly so. And while Sherlock could be irritating and rude, John had seen the humanity underneath his carefully constructed untouchable façade. John always had been a sucker for difficult people. He might as well go get his stuff and move right in. It was as good as done already.

* * *

John awoke the next morning to the sound of banging on his door.

"Oi! Johnny, you open up in there!" His _sister_'s voice demanded through thin wooden barriers. Given what he was fearing this conversation would entail, he didn't want have it in the poorly constructed bed-sit with paper-thin walls for all to hear.

He groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position in bed, cataloging his aches in the process. He certainly wasn't as young as he had once been, and chasing a murderous cabby around London had taken a toll on him after the months of convalescence following his medical discharge. His leg, on the other hand, felt great.

Yes, the muscles in his leg ached along with the rest of his body, but the phantom pain that shouldn't have plagued him was gone. One night with that bloody mad man he was already so loyal to, and the psychosomatic limp was gone.

"I mean it, Watson!" _Harriet_ called as she continued beating her fist against the door. If she kept it up the other tenants would start complaining soon.

He grabbed his dressing gown, and slipping it over his pajamas wrenched open the door before his dear sister could rouse anyone else from an honest sleep.

"_What_ is it. _Harriet_." He stated, rather than asked. Each word an exercise in control, voice volume carefully modulated to avoid shouting as he embarrassingly had at Mrs. Hudson last night when she commented on his leg.

For a moment they stared at each other intently. Then a light bulb seemed to click behind Harriet's eyes.

"You haven't called me my full name for years, Johnny." She pointed her finger at him, accusingly. "I thought you were ignoring me because of the drinking. I thought you were distant when you were invalided home because of the injury." She continued. "I came to check on you because some strange man called me last night and told me that my brother was falling in with a dangerous sort of person and that _'bravery is the kindest word for stupid'_ that he knew. Thought someone ought to be looking out for you because you're clearly that kind of stupid, and as your only living kin, that should be me. Some shit about the duty of siblings."

John sighed, still barring entrance to his room, one hand firmly holding the door, body firmly planted in the gap.

"But you're not mad at me for drinking, are you? You were expecting me…or dreading me…"

John gave his sister a pointed look, the one Sherlock had already classified as meaning 'more-than-a-bit-not-good' in his lexicon of John's expressions.

"Oh, don't give me that look, your face is as open as a book. Too honest by far, Johnny." Harriet gave a sad half exhaled huff, half chuckle, and rested a hand on his good shoulder. He stiffened involuntarily, straightening at the contact.

Harriet frowned at the reaction. "I'm still your sister, John Hammish Watson," her voice sad and eyes heavy with unshed tears. "I do care about you, you know." Their eyes met, he thought he could read her sincerity through the glassy sheen of barely restrained…regret? Sorrow? Pity?...he couldn't quite place the emotion on her face. It wasn't one he'd seen her wear often.

"I'm so sorry, Johnny, I should have known. I should have realized you've remembered. It really shouldn't have been possible for you to remember, but I should be used to you being an exception by now, I suppose."

She stepped forward to offer comfort as she spoke, but her words had a much different effect on John. He stepped back just enough to remove himself from the path of the door and slammed it shut.

"Johnny, please don't lock me out!" his sister's voice plaintive this time, filtered through the wood of the door.

John stood there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the door. Hands steady at his side even as his heart beat raggedly in his chest.

Hearing her say it cemented it. Before he could have called himself crazy, could have thought of his new memories as a strange, persistent dream. He'd demonstrated no magical abilities, noticed no owls with post or strange creatures, nor had he seen anyone dressed in robes or hats, or so strangely it couldn't be explained by some subset of London's fashion. But now it had been corroborated, and John had panicked. He put a barrier – a real, physical, door – between himself and the threat to his new reality. He was terrified of being sucked back in.

But, Harriet had seemed earnest. And she'd made a good point (one that Mycroft Holmes had made to him the night before as well). Bravery _is_, by far, the kindest word for stupidity. And John had demonstrated time and again he was nothing if not brave. So, swallowing his trepidations, doubts, and better judgment, he opened the door once more, and standing to the side, permitting Death entrance into his room.

For a moment they simply stood across from each other, letting silence bridge the space between them. Unspoken words the only ones that made any sense at all.

John broke first, rubbing his brow, running fingertips over a phantom scar that had marred him in other skin. "Let me get dressed," he sighed, "then we can talk."

Harriet looked around his bedsit, noticing the boxes. "Want a lift getting these over to the new place?" she offered. "I can help you move in, then we can -" she gesticulated with her fingers, a turning over motion, stirring the air "- you know, talk."

John smiled at her over a sloped shoulder. Apparently, as much had changed had also stayed the same.

"Sure. Let's do that."

* * *

John was not surprised that Sherlock was not at Baker Street when they arrived. There were traces of him everywhere – his papers strewn about, experiments all over the table – but the man himself was not to be found.

Moving in his meager belongings had taken only a few minutes, and now John and Harriet really needed to clear the air.

"Shall I run down and get us some sandwiches from that shop next door while we talk?" She asked, deferring to his preferences, "Or would you rather do this somewhere else?"

"No, no, here is fine," John sunk down into the chair he had claimed as his own. "And please. Sandwiches would be great. And some crisps."

Harriet nodded and reached for her things – she carried no handbag, but kept a man's billfold in one pocket and her keys with her phone and spare change in another. Sherlock had been right about that.

Sherlock had been right about many things as he made his observations the night before. He had been wrong about Harriet's gender (he couldn't call her _Harry_ any more, not even in his own mind), and about the exact reasons of their distance, but right about everything else.

The only part of Sherlock's deduction John hadn't specifically addressed was the reason for their distance. He was sure Sherlock had noticed. Sherlock noticed everything. But he hadn't pushed John on the issue. He'd let it fall where it may, and John was grateful.

Perhaps it was too emotional and messy for Sherlock to appreciate, and knowing he wouldn't fully understand it, he'd left it alone. How do you explain to a new flatmate (colleague? Friend?) that your refusal to ask your sister for help and your current emotional distance is not only because of her alcoholism, but also largely because of a fear of confronting a shared past existence in a magical world where an individual could conceivably, upon uniting a set of mythical artifacts, become the Master of Death, and that your sister in this existence was actually your vassal from your past existence because you actually were unlucky/crazy/weird enough or somehow destined to find and unite said mythical artifacts, thus becoming Death's master, and, apparently, had managed to leave that existence behind to begin anew, somehow managing to anthropomorphize Death into your own sister in the process?

No, Sherlock Holmes would have trouble with that. Surely, he would reject it outright and wonder how he had missed the clear signs of mental infirmity in John that should have indicated his susceptibility to such delusions. He'd only known the man for a couple of days, but knew him well enough to tell that the man operated on logical principles. What Sherlock did may seem like magic, but his world was always grounded solidly in fact, his deductions pouring forth from observation of the physical world and a keen understanding of the strangest minutiae.

John hoped he would never have to broach the topic with Sherlock. Somehow, he knew he would have to sooner or later, though. Now that he was aware of it himself, and aware of the detective's abilities, it was inevitable. Even though Sherlock was so logical, perhaps _because_ Sherlock was so logical, he would eventually notice something that would cause him to deduce John's hidden past. Maybe it wouldn't be everything, maybe Sherlock would just deduce that John had too many experiences to be accounted for in his current life.

It wasn't something John looked forward to. He wasn't looking forward to his conversation with Harriet, either.

With a past like his, it was easy to understand. Who would want to remember years full of neglectful relatives who never wanted him in their lives, or being thrust instantly into the spotlight after spending literally years in a dark cupboard, or finding himself in dangerous situation after dangerous situation each year at school, or being manipulated by friends and enemies alike, or learning that the mentor you idolized had been preparing you for sacrifice your entire life?

John didn't. He had tried to leave it all behind him, he had managed to do it, too – he'd stopped being Harry entirely and had become an entirely new person! But it seemed he could only escape the mantle of the boy-who-lived and the man-who-survived for so long.

When he was Harry, his life had been dominated and defined by the conflict with Voldemort. Once Voldemort was defeated, Harry dreamed of finally getting on to normal life.

To his great consternation, the war did not end with Voldemort's death and, of course, Harry was looked to for continued leadership in the continuing fight against the remaining death eaters. He didn't forget his dream, though. As soon as the mess was resolved, he wanted out.

The death eaters who escaped capture at the battle of Hogwarts not only continued to resist capture, they became desperate. They knew their cause was lost, and realized they had bet too heavily on Voldemort's success. With his defeat, they were ruined. There was no going back for them, so they sought to take as many muggleborn and blood traitors as they could with them.

So, Harry stepped up to the plate. Maybe it was because he was expected to, or perhaps it was his saving-people thing that Hermione nagged him about. The _Prophet_ claimed it was his destiny. One way or another, he couldn't abide _watching_ and not _doing_ something about the situation.

He formally took command of the Order of the Phoenix, officially backed by the Ministry. He rallied the forces of the light and coordinated with the new ministry government, lead by Kingsley Shackelbolt, which was eager to prove itself after the debacle that was the return of Voldemort.

He had only told Hermione and Ron about the return of the Deathly Hallows after he had disposed of the Resurrection Stone and the Death Stick because he had no other options. He would have never revealed his secret, but he woke to the two of them cradling his broken body in the aftermath of a particularly brutal confrontation with a holdout cell of death eaters. He had taken a fully powered blow from a sectum sempra from behind. It had severed his spinal cord. He had been dead.

The first thing he saw as his heart began to beat and he gasped greedily to fill his lungs with air were the shocked faces of his two closest friends. He hadn't believed them until he saw the condition of his robes and the blood beneath him. Luckily, no one else had been near enough to notice he had died. He honestly hadn't known about this ability. His horrified expression told Ron and Hermione everything they needed to know – it wasn't something he wanted. He was afraid. And they would protect him from any fallout from his new condition, including help cover-up any "deaths" he might experience.

Of course there was nothing written about the side effects of obtaining all of the Deathly Hallows. It had never been done before. Aside from references to becoming "the Master of Death," even the most ancient and potent of texts were useless. Overtime Harry, Ron and Hermione discovered a few of Harry's other new talents: Harry's general spell-power had increased. He was better able to access wandless magic under duress. He had acquired a penchant for medical magic that had never been present before. He was able to sense Death when it was near.

He didn't tell Ron and Hermione, but he was able to will Death to claim someone.

That last one was pretty intimidating. Harry didn't like to think about it, but it was true. They had all noticed that, in the heat of the moment, more of Harry's spells connected with their targets, and with more fatal results. Harry hated it, and hated the rush that followed. He didn't tell Ron and Hermione that he felt invigorated when he was surrounded by Death. That he was coming to enjoy the chaos of battle, and that he was becoming so adept at medical magic because restoring life was the natural counter balance to destroying it.

* * *

The world came crashing down on Harry once more when one of the captured Death Eaters granted the _Prophet_ an exclusive interview exposing Harry as a rising danger to peaceful society. Clarence Bulstrode gave intense details about the carnage of the failed raid he had participated in – foiled by the Order of the Phoenix.

"The Order members only used non-lethal spells," Bulstrode was quoted. "Except for Potter…he was a menace, throwing out overpowered stunners that knocked his victims back so hard their skulls burst on the ground when the fell. His petrificus totalus didn't just freeze people, they stopped so hard their bones broke under the pressure. I'm just grateful I was captured before he was able to torture me to death like the others. Mark my words, he's going dark, and unlike the Dark Lord, he's not interested in the well-being of wizarding society at all. He'll be the downfall of us all!"

Public outcry was overwhelming. Harry had to retreat to Grimmauld Place, under the protection of the fidelius. Just like the times public opinion had shifted against him at Hogwarts, Harry's allies quickly turned against him. Hermione, Ron, and handful of others stood with him, but it wasn't enough, and Harry refused to let his loyal friends suffer for his sake.

He knew what he had to do, and started searching out ways to leave the magical world behind.

First, he suggested simply running away. He would simply lose himself in the muggle world where he was nobody and no one would spare him a second glance. Hermione and Ron quickly dashed that hope.

"Think about it Harry, you have a magical core. You are a magical being! They'll always be able to track you unless there's some way to disguise the essence of who you are!" Hermione explained.

That started the search for a magical solution. Over the next several weeks they investigated and discarded ideas like using an alternate wand or taking polyjuice. Hermione did find a couple of promising spells based on the notice-me-not charm that would help Harry venture into public spaces, like Diagon Alley, without worrying about being swarmed.

None of the solutions were long-term, until Harry found an ancient spell referenced in the Black family grimoire: _Oblitus Vitae_. It promised to remove a person from their current life. Harry was immediately drawn to the thought of being able to get away from it all.

He showed Hermione and Ron his findings, both were skeptical about the spell, but agreed to help him look into it.

* * *

It was nearly a month later that Hermione found something on Harry's arcane spell. Unfortunately, it was technically classified as a curse. It claimed to _destroy _the life of the target. The target would not die, but would live on as a muggle, unaware of the life they had previously led or the existence of the magical world. The target's friends, family, associates, and enemies would likewise be unaware of the target's new identity. It was a complete and total break with the target's life.

While extreme, Harry wasn't entirely against the idea. Yes, he had amazing friends and his adopted family (comprised mainly of the Weasleys) had supported him through so much, but he was honestly tired of his life. He didn't want to forget his loved ones, but the thought of getting a fresh start was tempting. Ron and Hermione made him promise not to try it before they learned more about it.

After a year in hiding, Harry hoped the furor would have died down. It didn't. With renewed sympathy for Sirius's imprisonment in Grimauld Place after his escape from Azkaban, Harry itched to escape. Ron and Hermione still came by to help him research solutions to his predicament and keep him company, but they were facing obstacles in their own lives, as well.

The day after Ron told Harry he'd come home to find Hermione crying in a corner because a group of wizards had threatened her with curses and physical violence if she didn't give Harry's location to them, something inside Harry snapped. Ron assured him that no real harm had actually befallen Hermione – it was just a scare, but _just a scare_ was much too close to comfort for Harry.

Ron and Hermione found him in a bathtub full of his own blood when they came over the next evening after work. He'd hoped that if he bled out enough there would be nothing left to revive, even as the Master of Death. It didn't work.

His friends were furious with him, and it took him much longer to recover than when the death eaters got him with that lucky sectum sempra. He was trying to find a way out, to get away from everything and protect his remaining friends from becoming pariahs for helping him, from being threatened, from being hurt. He was just so tired of being not only useless, but also a danger to those he loved. There didn't seem to be any other options any more. He needed to _get out. _Ron simply shook his head at Harry's explanation while Hermione openly cried.

"Look, mate," Ron said. "I know I haven't always been the most steady friend, but I'm not a kid any more, and 'Mione has always stood by your side. Screw the bloody press and the bloody public. You're the only one with an opinion worth any salt, and we're not going to give up on you that easy. You're not a burden, you're not a problem. You're our best mate."

Harry still insisted his friends take precautions and stop standing up for him in public. He made them swear an unbreakable vow to not publicly defend him or his honor at their own expense.

* * *

After another year of public Harry-Hunting, he was ready to throw in the towel. He continued his suicide attempts, and never met with success. He never mentioned it to Ron and Hermione, and though he never woke to their horrified faces again, he knew they were aware of it. It only served to underscore how miserable and inescapable his existence had become. He didn't even expect it to work anymore. It was more of a macabre game, a way to pass time, than anything else.

During this bleak period, Hermione finally found another reference to _Oblitus Vitae. _It was technically classified as a curse. It destroyed the target by removing the target from his previous life. The target would continue to live, but as a new person, unaware of the life they had previously experienced. The target's friends, family, associates, and enemies would likewise be unaware of the target's new identity. It was a complete and total break with the target's life.

Hermione had existential concerns about it. "If we help you become someone else, and you don't know who you were, and we don't know who you become, then you – the Harry Potter that you are now – ceases to exist. It's the murder of the experience of your life. Yes, maybe your essence will live on and technically be the same, but the man I call my friend will be gone forever. I want to help you, Harry, but I can't kill you to do it…we have to keep looking."

"If I wanted you out of my life, I wouldn't be helping you." Ron stated simply.

Harry didn't have the heart to tell him it was the first sign of light at the end of the tunnel he'd seen in a long time.

They kept it on the table at Harry's insistence as they continued looking for other options.

It was on an unremarkably dreary day, months later, that Hermione found the key to its execution. It was time sensitive. It needed to be cast on the night of the new moon, and could be executed in one of two ways. One form of the spell was a curse, yes, but that was a variation of the original. The other form of the spell was developed in response to the witch hunts in the dark ages. It enabled the family and friends of a witch to protect her from persecution by simply removing her from the situation and giving her a new life, as a new person. It took a little extra effort and called for a sacrifice of either the target's magic or another, willfully given, powerful vessel.

"Do you remember the _Oblitus Vitae_ curse you found, Harry?" Hermione asked from her perch on the window seat in the library at Grimauld Place.

Harry didn't answer for a long minute. Of course he remembered. It was the only even remotely workable solution they'd found, moral objections of his friends aside.

"'Mione," Ron admonished, "No…"

Hermione turned from the bleak sunshine filtering through greying windows. "He's miserable, Ronald. If he could, he would have killed himself by now! Besides, I've found new information - another version of the spell that would allow him to find some kind of peace. It's not a punishment, Ron! It's a way to save someone facing hopeless persecution!" She sounded half desperate. Trying to convince herself as much as any one else.

Ron first glared at Hermione, then turned hurt eyes to Harry. Harry watched his best friend's heart break as Ron began to speak. "The Harry I knew was full of life and vitality. He never gave up – he believed in himself even when I didn't. And the one time I was ready to go the distance with him, he wants to call it quits." Ron took a shaky gasp. "But I'm not abandoning you again, Harry. I'm with you, every step of the way. Even if I don't like it. Even if we lose you."

Harry reached out to Ron and clasped him close, forehead pressed against Ron's shoulder, his chest heaving with relief even as Ron's protested in distress. "Thank you," he croaked out – no voice, only words, "Thank you," with a little more strength behind it.

"I still think you're mad," Ron spoke into his unruly hair, "and this is the worst possible solution out there. There has to be another way, Harry."

Harry shook his head, dashing Ron's hopes away.

"I tried another way first, remember?" Harry whispered, his words having an immediate and visceral effect on Ron.

"Yeah mate," he sobbed, first clenching tense fingers and flexed palm against the nape of Harry's neck, then loosening to soothe and pat at the unruly hair there, as though the motion could tame turbulent and violent emotions, bare, exposed, and aching. "I remember."

And finally, they were all on the same page together.

Harry was ecstatic and relieved; Hermione somber, but resolute. Ron was unhappy, but steadfast. He would still be losing his friend, but somehow – in this context – it seemed almost noble now. When used as a curse, the target would suffer through a new life of torment. When cast by friends, it protected the target and ensured a life they would be comfortable in, where they could find peace and fulfillment. And when it came to an object of power to be sacrificed instead of his magic, well, Harry had just the thing in mind.

* * *

They came up with a plan quickly after that. Harry, as their master, volunteered the Deathly Hallows to serve as the magical sacrifice called for to power the spell. Hermione raised an eyebrow at that, questioning if the power of _those_ artifacts would be too much for the spell. Harry insisted that, as their master, they wouldn't hurt him. "Besides, Mione," he explained, "You know how dangerous they are – what if this is our chance to get rid of them? – we could rid the world of them and their temptation!"

The spell was ancient, and more closely resembled a ritual than anything else Harry had seen before. They would need to perform the spell outdoors, but in a safe enough place to run through uninterrupted from start to finish. For maximum effect and decided to use the new moon closest to the equinox to incorporate balance in the casting as a safety measure for Ron and Hermione.

As they continued to research, it became clear they might be out of their magical depth with the complexity of the spell and its demands. If Harry had been the caster, he probably could have managed through sheer power and determination, but without the benefit of the elder wand backing them, neither Hermione nor Ron had the necessary strength or experience for such an undertaking.

After much discussion, they decided to risk reaching out to a few choice old allies who would be likely to help. They carefully approached Minerva McGonagall, now headmistress of Hogwarts, and Filius Flitwick. Between their exceptionally nuanced understanding of the complexity of magic required for charms and transfiguration, they should be able to help address any issues the three friends had not been able to yet identify.

It took several heated meetings, disclosure of Harry's possession of the Deathly Hallows, and one dramatic demonstration from Harry to convince McGonagall and Flitwick to come on board. McGonagall, a true Gryffindor, was drawn in by the argument of using the ritual to destroy the dangerous deathly hallows.

Flitwick, however, was convinced after Harry's dramatic demonstration of stabbing himself in the hand with one of the remaining basilisk fangs found in the Chamber of Secrets, then dying and resurrecting unscathed, but with _that look_ in his eyes – _haunted, tired, worn, and bored_ – Flitwick, as a man, recognized something that deserved pity; as a champion duelist, something that evoked respect; and as a tactician befitting the house of Ravenclaw, something that warranted caution in Harry. He was a man at his end, ready to give up. Willing to give up. _Trying _to give up. And if he was denied that option any longer, Flitwick feared what it would mean for the world. A bored Master of Death, with nothing to lose and a wizarding world turned against him was not something to take lightly. Harry had turned to despair. How long until the ministry or a fanatic stepped out of line and did something that managed to rise is ire? How could anyone stand against a vengeful, enraged Master of Death? No, that was not something Flitwick was willing to risk. He readily agreed to take the hallows out of the equation. If Harry could benefit in the process and find some relief, all the better.

* * *

John sat in the arm chair with the Union Jack pillow supporting his back, feeling more worn and withdrawn than…well, than he ever had in his life as John. He was trying not to ruminate on the depressing life of Harry Potter and remember his much less depressing life as John Watson. Still, he needed answers. He lifted his head as he heard Harriet's foot-falls in the hall stairs.

"I got yours with horseradish," she offered, crossing the room with a nervous smile to plant the wrapped sandwich in his outreached hand.

"Thanks," he mumbled, unwrapping it with military efficiency and chewing with quick precision. After a few moments of John eating while Harriet watched, John decided he'd better start asking questions before Sherlock decided to show up. He knew just where he wanted to begin.

"Why Harriet?" John asked.

"Are you asking me why this happened," she queried, finally unwrapping her sandwich and taking a bite, "Or are you asking me about me becoming me?"

"The second one." John replied. "I think. I'll want to know that first part, too. If you know. Do you?"

Harriet smiled in commiseration with John, who wasn't sure he wanted that. "I know what you mean. How much do you remember about the night the spell was cast?"

"I don't want to talk about the spell right now, _Harriet._ What I want to know is why and how you became my sister."

"Sorry, Johnny," she managed around another bite. "They're tied together. Can't get one without the other." Swallow.

"I don't follow."

"Well, that night, what you and your little friends tried to do…you tried to fuel a spell that changes a life using the power of death as a source. The equinox could have served as a balance, but," another bite, "You really can't mess around with Death." She chewed. John glared at her. "Unless, of course," she continued, "your name is Harry Potter."

John sighed gustily. "I really don't want to talk about him. Me. Whoever." His fingertips again found their way to his forehead, his frown became more pronounced.

"Tough luck, Johnny," Harriet continued. "When you channeled my energy, it was too much for the spell to handle. It was going to get out of control. Really, it was smart of you three to include the old woman and the little goblin-man. They really saved your arses."

"For the love of -!" John was quickly becoming exasperated. "I don't want to reminisce, I don't want your jokes, just tell me _what happened_!"

"Thought you might've gained some patience in this life, but no," Harriet mumbled while chomping a crisp.

John glared.

She rolled her eyes. With a sip of her drink, she continued. "You can't just _destroy_ objects that were literally made by Death. You saw firsthand how stubborn the Hallows were once they were united. You couldn't get rid of them. And they wouldn't let you get rid of _yourself_, either. And boy did you try!" Harriet chuckled sadly. John didn't seem amused. "I was worried about you, you know, but I knew you'd grow out of it."

"Moving on…" John spat out through a clenched jaw.

"And the temper's still intact, too!" Harriet chirped in response. "The energy, okay – there was too much energy to balance. The objects were destroyed in the ritual, and some of that power went into the spell, but there was far too much left over. So, those old professors of yours stepped in and, with some quick thinking and fancy spellwork, were able to send the essence of those items with you. Since you became a different person, it made sense for me to join you.

"But here's where it gets tricky, Johnny. When the energy I put into those objects was being channeled into a new form to go with you, well, if it wasn't done just so it could have destroyed me."

John snorted, but for once Harriet didn't have a snappy comeback.

"Oh Johnny, but that part's not funny. You already know what it's like to live without Death. Imagine a whole world without me keeping things running, rather a whole world with things that keep running because I'm not there to stop them."

He couldn't hide the shiver that ran down his spine at that idea.

"Yeah, that's about how I felt about it, too. So I had to interfere with the spell. I just nudged it, really. So maybe you didn't get the perfect little life you deserved – though I swear you still have that chance of achieving a more fulfilling, happier life than you ever could have as Harry bloody Potter – but you did get a big sister to watch out for you and guide you through this life" Harriet grinned, arms open as though gesturing to herself as the grand prize he was lucky to have with him.

"What a load of shit," John commented, picking idly at the fraying edges of the armrest on his chair. "A guide through this life? You? I protected you most of our childhood! I was the one who made sure you never got in too much trouble. Not to mention you're a bloody alcoholic!" he shouted. "This is ridiculous."

"Well, it turns out actually living is a lot more interesting than I gave it credit for!" Harriet tried to cover her grin. She did feel guilty about the way things had turned out. "I've never actually been alive before. I always just _was_. Existence is boring, Johnny. Living is great! Getting drunk is great! Sex is great! I can't believe you don't do those things more often. I really think everyone should. There's so much fun to be had out there!"

Now it was John's turn to roll his eyes. "Why am I not surprised? You're absolutely hopeless, you know. Besides, I thought you were meant to be much more menacing – you know, dry, dark, somber, macabre."

"Hey, don't forget that you've changed, too," Harriet waggled a finger in his direction. "Don't think that just because I have an important role o play that I can't have fun, too. Let me enjoy this. It's been all business literally for ever." And just like that her joking nature seemed suddenly contrived. For a split second John's heart ached for how lonely his sister must have been before.

"You never answered my question, you know. You could have 'watched out for me' in any number of different ways. Why did you have to become my _sister_? And why on earth did you have to call yourself _Harry?_"

Harriet bit back a laugh at that. "Believe it or not, I actually am quite fond of you. There's no one else out there like you. I saw an opportunity for us to insinuate our existence into the lives of the Watson family – I know you're not a fan of Fate, but I've dealt with it enough to recognize when it's at work. The Watsons were always supposed to have two children, a girl and a boy, Harriet and John. Only they never had any children, until they did. It's kind of a paradox, so try not to think about it too hard. Harriet and John were supposed to exist, but wouldn't have if you and your friends hadn't done what you did exactly the way you did it and I didn't respond exactly the way I did. If you're peeved about the name, blame Mum, not me. It was her idea. It is pretty funny, though. I kind of like it."

She actually twinkled her eyes at him, which irritated John to no end. Fairly or not, he had taken to associating twinkling eyes with manipulation. It was definitely one of the triggers for his temper. He tried to push down his increasingly bad attitude to keep asking questions. "Alright, let's say I buy all that. Tell me, besides you being my sister now, has the nature of our relationship changed at all?"

Harriet's smile turned sharp. "Now that's a great question, Johnny," she said, voice intent. "You really are very special to me. Not just because you're the only man I've ever called Master, but because you're so very _you_. Something has shifted in our relationship. I don't know if it's because we're related, or if maybe we were always related and this spell just helped us realize it…you're still my Master. I'm sure of that. But the dynamics are different. I don't have it all figured out yet."

"Of course you don't." John sighed, leaning back in his chair, looking defeated once more.

"See!" Harriet exclaimed, grinning madly, "That's what I mean! Any other man would be thrilled to be the Master of Death. And you've literally tried to be _anything_ but! Oh I love you, Johnny. It doesn't matter who you become or what you're called, you're just so thoroughly _good_ and _noble_. A true hero."

Before John could scold her for that sentiment, the downstairs door slammed open and Sherlock's great bounding steps sounded on the stairs.

"Tell you what, I'll keep my eye out for you, Johnny," Harriet winked, rising from her seat, tossing the wrappers from her crisps and sandwich in the empty take-out bag as Sherlock burst through the door. "If you need me, just give me a call," she leaned over to kiss his cheek as she had grown accustomed to in this life, even as John flinched away, blocking her kiss by raising his hand as a barrier between them.

"We will be continuing this conversation." He held her gaze, willing her to understand that there was much more to discuss, but that this was not the time or the place any more. "Good bye, Harriet."

"Bye Johnny," she replied somewhat reluctantly. Having given up on a kiss, she settled instead on ruffling his hair. He slapped away her hand with an angry snort. She offered Sherlock a brief, knowing smile as she brushed past. "Nice skull." She couldn't resist complimenting on her way out.

John sat in silence, refusing to look at Sherlock, knowing he and his sister were being deduced. He locked his jaw, waiting to be bombarded with Sherlock's conclusions.

"Good, you've eaten. Saves me the trouble of making sure you have enough energy to keep up." Sherlock's baritone drew his attention. "Get your coat. We're going to the morgue."

John's relief was instant. With a grateful lop-sided grin he hoisted himself from chair and moved to follow his new flatmate to St. Bart's, happy to lose himself in the frantic energy that was Sherlock and leave his worries for another day.

* * *

Across London, in the office of a minor government official, Mycroft Holmes found himself in the rare condition of having been rendered speechless. He clicked off the live video feed from 221B Baker Street and steepled his fingers as he thought about what he'd just learned.

Of course he knew about the boy-who-lived and grew up to kill the dark lord Voldemort. He was the British government. Someone had to coordinate with aurors and obliviator squads to cover up Voldemort's attacks in the late '90s and the continued Death Eater activities through the early years of the new millennium.

He had always wondered about the Wizarding World's penchant for scapegoating the poor lad when it was going on. He tried to offer the young man what support he could by tipping off Order members about suspected Death Eater activities in the mundane world quickly. It was obvious to Mycroft that Harry Potter had never deserved the negative attention of the press or the persecution of the wizarding public.

That he had managed to find a magical way to escape that life and become someone else was quite surprising. Mycroft could appreciate the appeal. He himself operated from the shadows for a reason. If anything, he applauded the young man's ingenuity in finding an alternative to a life of forced reclusion or false imprisonment.

In some ways the idea that Harry Potter, now living as John Watson, had allied himself with Mycroft's younger brother was comforting. It certainly explained why John had not been intimidated by Mycroft's abduction yesterday evening, and why he was so loyal to Sherlock so quickly. Mycroft had always heard Harry Potter had an excellent knack for befriending misfits – social outcasts, trouble-makers, under dogs with great potential, even a house elf, if the rumors were true. Of course he recognized Sherlock's innate drive to help, buried as it was under a façade of keeping his intellect engaged and boredom at bay.

However, several parts of the siblings' conversation worried Mycroft. The mention of powerful artifacts made by death – surely, that was not meant _literally_, was it? – certainly caught his attention. The thing Mycroft detested about working with magicals was that you never could tell what they meant figurative or literally. He had a sinking feeling this time it was meant literally. Especially given the context of the rest of the conversation.

Was Harriet Watson, one of the citizens of the British Commonwealth Mycroft had dedicated himself to protecting, the very same Harriet Watson he had called as a courtesy from one elder sibling to another to keep her younger brother safe, actually the embodiment of Death? It was a difficult thought. And what was that about John Watson – Harry Potter – being _Master of Death_? The unassuming little army doctor was much more dangerous than Mycroft could have imagined. The situation warranted close monitoring. He lifted the handset of the simple black phone on his desk and spoke without dialing.

"Did you happen to catch that exchange with our dear doctor, Anthea?"

"Of course, sir," Anthea's tone communicated no greater spark of interest than usual.

"We're going to need better surveillance than I initially anticipated. And secure. Pull anyone with connections to the wizarding world, no matter how tenuous, from the case. We cannot risk exposure of Dr. Watson yet, nor can my brother learn about existence."

"Of course, sir." A pause. "Sir, don't you think Mr. Holmes will deduce the statute of secrecy soon enough?"

"The doctor has shown no signs of magic up to this point, even when his life was in danger in Afghanistan. Let us enjoy what time we have before Sherlock discovers an entire new society to disdain." Mycroft could only imagine the repercussions. It really was too bad the obliviate charm didn't work on well-organized minds, though that was the only reason Mycroft was privy to the secret. "And Anthea, let's keep a set of eyes on Harriet Watson for the time being, as well. Same requirements."

"Understood, sir."

* * *

_End of the chapter note: So - here's how it goes in my brain, in case that was confusing (And please let me know what you think so I can rework it if I need to): _

_1. Deathly Hallows happens basically like it's supposed to, minus the epilogue and Ginny/Harry, plus some lingering remnants of death eaters that need to be cleaned up. (for the record, I am not against Ginny/Harry, it just doesn't work for this idea. Harry would never leave if he had the hope of a family of his own)_

_2. Deathly Hallows return to Harry, he is Master of Death._

_3. Wizarding world turns on Harry._

_4. Harry falls into a deep depression because of living conditions, being a scapegoat, etc._

_5. In his desperation to escape, he discovers Oblitus Vitae (which roughly translates as "forgotten life") and decides to go for it._

_6. McGonagall and Flitwick are recruited to help._

_7. Hallows used as a sacrifice to power the spell._

_8. Something goes wrong, Death has to step in to protect itself and Harry _

_9. Harry and Death become John and Harriet Watson (In my brain, there is some overlap between when John and Harriet Watson were born and when Harry Potter was having adventures and such. I think Harry and John are actually about the same age. The spell doesn't have to work linearly - we're talking about primordial forces - death, fate, - time is just another dimension to entities like that. If you don't like that idea, then, you can do this instead: Harry steps out of his life as Harry and directly into his life as John, the spell created a back story and life experiences for John at the moment the spell was complete. John would have no sense that his recollection of his life wasn't what happened, because experience shapes us, and everything he has in his memory as an experience tells him how he got to where he is now. So, even though it's a manufactured history, because he accepts it as his life experience, it is his reality._

_10. Of course Mycroft's in the know!_

_I really like the existential crisis Hermione has about the spell initially. If you erase someone's experience of himself/herself, is that equivalent to destroying that person's existence? Is that the death of the person? Is that morally wrong? Is that murder? fun times for arm chair philosophers._

_Finally, I'm thinking about changing the name of this to "Oblitus Vitae" what do you think?_

_As always, thank you for reading!_

_-M_


	8. A Study of Watson

_This feels clunky to me, but it's not getting any better with my rereads and tweaking, so here it is! I hope it's not too much of a rehashing of "A Study In Pink"...Let me know what you think - critiques certainly welcome. Also, in case of any huge confusion, I think it's fairly clear I don't own any of this and simply rather enjoy playing with fun characters. Thank you for your continued interest. _

_-M._

Sherlock had been right.

Of course he was right – he was unerringly accurate and thorough in his observations and deductions. Well, maybe not _entirely_ unerring. There was always _something._

But, even when he missed something, he was generally aware the information he had was not complete. He knew there was _something_ by virtue of its absence in his observations.

Take the current situation with John, for instance: Sherlock had thoroughly and with high accuracy deduced John within moments of their first meeting. And yet, several hidden elements about the doctor eluded him.

Which is what he had been right about this time. John Watson was certainly not boring, and even after their first case together, Sherlock knew he was no closer to unraveling the mystery of the good doctor.

* * *

Sherlock had been quite pleased by the results of baiting John (and of having correctly ascertained the appropriate bait with which to tempt him – namely, danger) into accompanying him on the case of the serial suicides the night before. He had thought about leaving the doctor behind – couldn't have that awful psychosomatic limp inconveniencing him all night – until he heard John's outburst on his way down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson, dear sweet Mrs. Hudson, was the catalyst that produced the reaction Sherlock needed to _know_ what would hook John.

"I can tell you're more the sitting type, dear." She'd told him. Sweetly, and unintentionally patronizing. Perfect to goad a reaction out of the good doctor.

Sherlock couldn't have engineered a better scenario.

"DAMN MY LEG!" John had shouted, punctuating his protest with his cane. Then becoming immediately contrite, offering quiet apologies in sharp contrast to his outburst. Shamed by his response, Sherlock noted, but only by the nature of the response, which indicated great frustration at being left behind while others – more _able_ _bodied_ others – went off to find a murderer.

The shame could be a problem; if John felt that it was wrong-minded of him to enjoy the rush of adrenalin produced when exposed to perceived threats to safety, then Sherlock would never be able to rely on him wholly in the field. He would be hesitant instead of acting quickly, needing to consider his position from some outsider moral perspective.

The rustling of a paper and John's directions regarding tea and biscuits promptly addressed the issue. The shame response was a sham. He had been contrite for snapping at Mrs. Hudson, a sweet older woman who had attempted to comfort him, but not at all ashamed of his preference for action over sitting. Yes, Sherlock could definitely work with this.

Furthermore, John was surprising. He was confident, but not arrogant, willing to admit to his desire for adventure and -more importantly - indulge in it. Once invited to the crime scene, John seemed relieved and eager for the opportunity to be involved.

* * *

The limp had been annoying, as Sherlock anticipated, but the irritation it elicited was somewhat mitigated by the mystery of John. The most straightforward and yet infuriatingly difficult to read individual Sherlock had ever met.

Of course, he was still an idiot. He missed almost everything of note at the crime scene and lagged not only physically (annoying psychosomatic limp), but also mentally.

His open admiration of Sherlock's genius _was_ rather enjoyable, though. Sherlock had never had someone admire him before.

"Incredible," John had uttered, his praise and admiration blatant at the crime scene with the pink lady the night before.

It had surprised Sherlock into stillness, the first time. Just for a moment. The second interjected word of praise made him curious.

"Do you have to do that out loud?" Sherlock had asked. No one else praised him so vociferously, after all. John's outbursts of praise were new and different.

Mrs. Hudson demonstrated her care with tea and tidying his messes – despite the fact that she "wasn't his housekeeper" – but she never really praised him. Lestrade recognized his results and rewarded him with continued involvement on police cases. Molly, well, Molly would do nearly anything he asked her to just because she _liked_ him. All were useful. None were gratifying or satisfying on any internal level.

"No. Sorry, I can stop," John had offered. He seemed to not want to offend Sherlock or make him uncomfortable. He had mistaken Sherlock's curiosity for a desire to make him stop.

That wouldn't do at all.

"Don't," he replied, almost too forcefully, nearly revealing actual emotion. "It's nice."

And then Sherlock _smiled_. He had actually smiled an honest smile – not a sham or contrivance – he was actually _flattered_ by this strange little army doctor who had been so easy to deduce, and yet who remained such a mystery.

It felt small and exposed – and vulnerable – on his face. He returned to his normally placid or vaguely annoyed expression quickly. Sherlock refused to have his precious logic compromised by sentiment.

He had professed openly for years that he didn't need friends. Didn't need anyone. Now that he was confronted with the kind of person who offered him blind loyalty and carefree, casual acceptance – now that he was being treated as a human being, someone with value and worth besides his obvious intellect and observational skills – he found himself thinking that perhaps he had been hasty in his past determinations. Perhaps having a friend would be interesting. Not boring. Maybe just one.

Of course, that was if he didn't trample any tender shoots of friendship under his careless heel, caught up as he was in the case. In his preoccupation with the case, Sherlock had left John standing alone at a crime scene in a strange part of town surrounded by incompetent Yarders he didn't know and who didn't know him.

That brief contemplation hardly registered seeing as Sherlock had summoned John from across London – from his abduction by Mycroft, Sherlock had discovered – to return to the flat and send a text to a murderer.

John had entered the flat, been annoyed with Sherlock's request to send a text, had disclosed the details of his abduction – including the part where he was offered money to spy on Sherlock, and refused it (ill-considered; extra income at Mycroft's expense was always welcomed, though the gesture was strangely endearing), – sent the text anyway, and had neither panicked nor jumped to inconvenient conclusions when Sherlock revealed he had the latest victim's missing suitcase in his possession.

His reactions told Sherlock: John Watson has a strong sense of duty and will do what you ask him to; John Watson will not follow blindly, though – he will object and question unreasonable demands; John Watson is stupidly loyal once his mind is made up; John Watson is not easily intimidated; John Watson reads people well, even if he can't describe his observations in any sensible manner and ascribes his subconscious deductions to "gut feelings," or "instinct"; John Watson knows when to jump to conclusions, and when to wait for further data.

He was utterly transparent, and absurdly complex. Every thought and emotion lay close to the surface, plain to see. He was an idiot – in the way everyone was an idiot compared to Sherlock – but he had a decent enough brain and provided better feedback and input than the skull ever had.

Sherlock pushed John, put him through his mental paces until he figured out who would have the victim's phone in their possession. Called him a stand-in for his skull. And walked out with an insult and an invitation. And John had followed. Yes, this arrangement would work just fine.

* * *

Sherlock lead John to Angelo's – a restaurant owned by a man Sherlock had once saved from one prison sentence by proving he was busy committing an entirely unrelated crime at the time of the crime he had been falsely accused of. Somehow, this had endeared him to Angelo, and earned him free meals and a reserved table at his restaurant.

As John reviewed the menu, Sherlock made note of John's apparent attraction to him – questions about his sexual preference and current involvement, eyes darting to Sherlock's lips, licking his own, immediate and fumbling denial of interest – not yet a fully developed romantic interest, perhaps merely a physical response to Sherlock's admittedly (and sometimes purposefully cultivated) androgynous and posh appearance – could be useful in the future.

Sherlock had established boundaries (if anything Sherlock was almost asexual; he professed marriage to his work) which would help John accept his own feelings as platonic in nature, which would further engender fondness and loyalty, resulting in increased trust and protective behaviors from the doctor. Useful things in a companion, all.

The following chase following the suspect taxi across the streets of London resulting in shared mirth helped increase his estimation of John. It had been ages since he had last laughed honestly _with_ another human being and not _at_ them. Funny how much a preposition can change the experience of a situation.

John's loyalty, trust, admiration and positive regard of Sherlock even at this early juncture were astounding. Having returned to the flat after Sherlock, he had not been privy to Sherlock's reaction to the drugs bust: "As if your team could locate any substances if I chose to conceal them from you," delivered in an amused tone with a lifted eyebrow (just so) for effect.

Without the benefit of that exchange, John responded to the perceived threat as best he could. John's response was mystified incredulity. He could not imagine a circumstance in which Sherlock would compromise his personal integrity.

Incidentally, John's crude analysis of Sherlock's personality was spot on. He had somehow managed to _intuit _– the thought of which would have caused Sherlock a brief shudder, had he less control over himself -Sherlock would never compromise his personal integrity. He had, however, turned to recreational drug use on occasion to help _preserve_ his mental integrity by preventing himself from burning out due to lack of proper stimulation.

A persistent critical and analytic inner voice informed Sherlock that addicts do tend to convince themselves their drug use is not like the drug use of other addicts because they are special. Everyone thinks they can stop at any time. Sherlock ruthlessly quashed that inner voice, smug with pride in the knowledge that, unlike everyone else, he did possess the ability to stop at any time, and – in fact – had, withdrawal be damned!

Instead of being upset by the revelation of his past indiscretion, John took the disclosure in stride. He had assumed perfection in Sherlock. But, when faced with something less than perfection he merely incorporated it into the internal schema he had constructed for operating with and around Sherlock. It was fascinating.

John seemed to see Sherlock in a different light than anyone ever had before. He treated Sherlock with respect and admiration, and afforded him the common decencies one would expect from another human being in polite society, without ever seeming to pay attention to manners or societal expectations. It simply came naturally to him. There was no fear or wariness of Sherlock's deductive abilities, nor was there adulation. John respected Sherlock's abilities, and while he couldn't replicate them, John understood that Sherlock's mind was capable of greatness, and appreciated it without bowing before him or being intimidated or marginalizing himself.

* * *

In all of the ruckus of the false drugs bust and the renewed searching for the phone, no one noticed Sherlock disappear with the cabby. He allowed himself to be abducted from 221B Baker Street, deducing the cabby, his motivations, and learning about his game in the process.

It did turn out to be more interesting than Sherlock had hoped – at least the revelation of having gained the attention of some shadowy figure who sponsored crime.

Then, the cabby had goaded him into playing his game. Sherlock was well aware of his of his own weaknesses. He knew he was proud and that his pride could be exploited. He also knew he was arrogant, and that when challenged properly, he would invariably give in to the promise of something exciting to break up the dullness that defined the majority of his existence.

Sherlock knew he was confident, and refused to call it overconfidence until someone actually managed to outwit him. He took the cabby's challenge, secure in the knowledge that he would not yet be bested. Not by this sad waste of intellect, twisted by life into nothing more than another petty criminal.

It was a shock when the cabby had been shot. More so when Sherlock considered the ballistics of the weapon and the trajectory of the shot. The shooter had managed a clean hit to his target through two panes of glass, in the dark, from the next building over, with Sherlock standing in the line of sight. It was impressive marksmanship. More so when the sound of the gun and the bullet wound identified the weapon as a handgun – notably more difficult to aim and fire than a rifle. Sherlock had assumed the cabby had been shot to protect Moriarty from his possible failure, not to protect Sherlock from the cabby's game.

It was so inconceivable, so unpredictable, that even Sherlock had not initially been able to draw the connection to the cabby's death and John Watson's steady hand. It was only as he began deducing the shooter based on the precision of the shot to Lestrade that he noticed John on the periphery of the police line - neither attempting to cover his tracks nor to flee. Then, everything suddenly slotted into place. He advised Lestrade not to seek out the gunman after all – discrediting his analysis to the detective for the first time – protecting the man who had acted (unnecessarily) to save his life.

When he made his way over to John, revealing his knowledge that John had been the shooter, John met his eyes directly and denied nothing. When he asked John if he was alright, the response had been "Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"You did just kill a man," Sherlock pointed out, though he did hate stating the obvious.

"He wasn't a very good man," John instantly quipped back. They quickly devolved into friendly banter and even giggling at the crime scene.

Of course, John delighted him with the half-hearted admonishment: "No giggling at the crime scene!" in response to the disapproving looks sent there way by New Scotland Yard's finest.

* * *

Throughout the day, Sherlock had gleaned new information about his flat mate, it would take him hours to properly analyze and categorize the data. His discussion with John about his abduction at Mycroft's bequest stood out as important for further review. Likewise, his interaction with Mycroft at the crime scene after having shot the cabby.

Most intriguing was the shot itself and John's behavior afterwards.

First, the fact that the mild-mannered, rule-following doctor possessed an illegal firearm was tantalizing. It served to flush out the composite of John Sherlock was constructing. New data: John breaks rules to maintain control in a situation.

Second, John was a crack shot. Making a clean body shot from that distance with a handgun would be difficult in ideal conditions. At night, through two windows, across buildings, with _Sherlock standing in front of the target_…that was breathtaking ability. Furthermore, that was a shot that could not be made with shaking hands. New Data: John exceeds expectations under duress.

Third, the timing of the shot demonstrated no hesitancy whatsoever. A moment longer and Sherlock and the cabby would have both taken their medicine. The end result would have been the same, Sherlock was confident he had solved the puzzle correctly, so the cabby would have died even if he hadn't been shot. Still, this demonstrated the depth of John's devotion to those he cared for. New data: John will unflinchingly protect those he is loyal to.

New data: John was not intimidated by death – not by the sight of it, and not by causing it.

New data: John was a killer. Not just a solider who took lives on the battlefield, but someone who was capable of killing in civilian arenas as well.

It was difficult to reconcile this new data with what he had already compiled about John. John was nice. And utterly guileless. Except, apparently, for when he wasn't.

And still, Sherlock knew he was still looking at only a part of the picture. Impossibly, he was no closer to discerning John's secrets.

* * *

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards in the corners as he lay in his thinking pose, long limbs draped across the cushions of the couch in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. Pale eyes snapped open, and with a flourish he rolled to his feet, grabbing his coat and scarf from the rack near the door before bounding down the stairs. He would not be there when John moved his belongings into the flat. He needed more time and space to think.

Sherlock didn't bother hiding his smile as he strode down the street, choosing to walk and think until he reached the labs at St. Bart's, where he would charm Molly into giving him new cadavers to experiment on while he mulled over all of the data he'd collected on John. Instead, he let it grow until it reached clear across his face. He was going to enjoy thinking this over in the lab, and when he returned this evening, his new flat mate and maybe friend would be waiting for him.


End file.
